19. Jensen

CHAPTER 19

JENSEN

“ I think it’s time to get out now, Your Highness,” says Anders, looking at me with a level stare in the rearview mirror.

Anders has been our driver for as long as I can remember. To me he’s about a thousand years old even though he can’t be much more than sixty, and he is the greatest man in the world. When I was a kid, he would take me for ice cream and always treated me with absolute kindness. Deep lines form a network of a life lived over his face, his hair thin and white. His eyes are a bright blue, and he has a smile that always makes me feel better.

But Anders can only do so much.

Nothing can prepare me for the way my parents are about to react. Not even Anders can protect me from this wrath that’s about to get thrown at me. The one thing they made me swear never to do was make our family look stupid.

And lo and behold, guess what I’ve gone and done!

Not only about the original reason I ran away — the paparazzi’s fabricated pregnancy scandal — but now everyone’s spinning rumors about Billie as well, which is the exact opposite of what I want. If she wasn’t already furious with me, this will definitely have ruined any chance of our friendship lasting. I spent the entire flight home thinking about her.

I hope she’s okay now. I hope everyone wants to buy her photos. I really, really hope that the press aren’t bothering her.

I hate those guys more than I can say.

Anders smiles at me again. He knows as well as I do that I’m about to get the worst yelling-at I have ever had. They can’t exactly ground me. I’m a full-grown adult, after all. But this time I’m willing to admit I screwed up, at least.

Maybe that’ll count for something.

“I’ll see you later,” I say with a grimace.

“May the stars have mercy on you,” Anders says softly. It’s a Sólveigan phrase that we use to wish people luck, and right now it feels more appropriate than ever.

I get out of the car, my limbs heavy with trepidation and bone-deep fatigue. I barely slept on the plane, and I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight either. I may be back in my own bed, in my own clothes, in my own home, but there will be something missing.

Someone.

At least I’ll be able to eat some real food. I might have screwed up, but my parents can hardly send me to bed with no supper.

We’re at one of the smaller stately homes in our possession, Redwall House. It’s called that because of the bricks that were used. Here in Sólveigr, we have an abundance of deep red clay. So much so that most of our historically important wars are called something like the Red Battle because of how often soldiers would get completely covered in the stuff.

It doesn’t look that much like blood when it’s on clothes, but I confess I do enjoy the poetic license.

Slowly, I drag myself to the drawing room. I had a chance to freshen up slightly on the jet, and someone brought some fresh clothes for me, but I still really want to shower and sleep and eat. My hand shaking, I grip the ornate doorknob and twist it until it clicks. I let the door swing open, watching it go and steeling myself for what’s next.

My parents are both there, standing waiting for me, staring as I step forward towards them. “Hi,” I say nervously.

“Jensen,” says my mother, shaking her head. “Maybe one day you will listen to us when we speak.”

“I’m really sorry,” I start, but my father cuts me off by holding his hand up.

“How many times, Jensen? No pregnancy drama. We’ve been tolerant of your other antics, but this really is going too far. How many times do you need to be told?”

“I know,” I say, hanging my head like a naughty kid. “And I’m sorry. But if it helps, it’s not true.”

“No,” says my mother with a hard glint in her eye. “It doesn’t really help. We’ve given you so many chances to behave appropriately, to act in the way your birthright dictates. We’ve let you behave like a fool and make a mockery of yourself, but to bring this scandal upon us all… Why do you still insist on acting like this?”

“You’re old enough to know better, aren’t you?” adds my father, trying and not really succeeding to soften to blow of my mother’s words.

“Yeah. I don’t know,” I mumble.

“How many more chances do you need?” asks my mother, her face crumpling in that way it always does when she’s disappointed. “When are all your antics finally going to be enough for you?”

There’s a long pause, then I ask quietly, “Can I say something?” It’s better not to make assumptions and speak when I’m not supposed to. That’s something I’ve finally learned after years of getting it wrong.

My father nods slowly, and I take a deep breath. “Okay, so I screwed up. No, the rumor wasn’t true, but it’s my fault that I’ve lived in a way that meant people believed it. But listen; I won’t need any more chances after this. I promise. I know what you’re going to say next — that I’m useless or whatever, and I don’t deserve this title — and that’s probably true. But I guess there’s an opportunity here, isn’t there? To go and talk to some journalists and promise to be better. And the thing is, I want to be. I will be.”

My parents stare at me like they can’t believe what they’re hearing. But they don’t say anything, so I keep going. “I really mean it this time. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I’m tired of this life I’m living. I don’t want to be Jensen the party boy anymore. I want to actually do something useful with my titles, with my life. And I think I need help to get there.”

My mother’s face twists into something I can’t comprehend, and my heart pounds in my chest. Maybe I am about to get grounded after all.

Father takes a step towards me. “Jens,” he says, and I clench my fists to stop myself from wincing because the last person to call me that was Billie.

Even she didn’t believe I could be better in the end. If nothing else, even if she won’t see it, I want to prove myself to her.

“I do not want to be angry with you, my son. I want you to make us proud. What is it that’s given you this change of heart?”

“Don’t tell us it was a girl,” Mother says sourly.

I decide not to mention Billie, even though they will both have seen the photos. Assuming there are photos. I haven’t dared to look.

“It wasn’t,” I lie. “It was just, I don’t know. Being out there in nature. It made me see that, like, there’s a whole world, isn’t there? All this time I’ve been partying and—” I cut myself off before I say trying to get your attention because that would only go down like a lead balloon. “What I mean is… that’s something people do, isn’t it? When they’re like us? I’ve seen it before, famous people and stuff — they go on boats and write songs and make normal people look at animals or trees or people in cocoa mines… or farms?”

“Jensen,” my father says gently, reaching out to touch me on the shoulder. “Are you telling us you want to start doing conservation work?”

“Yes!” I say, glad that he understood the point of my word vomit.

Please don’t let this be the moment they say no.

“You mean it?” asks my mother.

I nod. “I know it’s unexpected, but yes. I mean it.”

“Then let us see how we can help you,” she says. “I’m sure there are some scientists who would be eager for royal endorsement.”

“Wait, but — really?” I blink in surprise, my mouth moving before my brain catches up.

They liked the idea?

“You’re still in trouble, mind you,” says my father. “When a scandal breaks out — whether it’s true or not — it is your duty to stick around and answer to your people. I still can’t begin to understand why you thought running off to a desert island was a good idea.”

“It wasn’t a desert island,” I say without thinking, and bite my lip to stop myself blurting anything else.

They both give me a raised eyebrow. “But if you’re serious about this, then yes. We will help you. It’ll be good for you to put your brain to something useful.”

I get another lecture about etiquette and behaving after that, but I barely hear it. They actually responded positively to my idea. They actually want me to do it?

I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.

After I get excused, I go up to my bedroom and flop down on the bed. I call George on his new number, using all the codewords we’ve developed over the years just in case someone has decided to hack him again. As I’ve been reminded lately, the press are demons.

I tell George about my plans, and how shocked I was that my parents supported them. We talk for hours, but the whole time I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to tell Billie. I tell George all about her, and he tells me off for not getting her number.

But he doesn’t understand. She would never have wanted that.

I want to tell her everything. But I let her down.

I let her go. And I regret it more than anything.